


Applecare

by Ambrosia



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ichabod versus the internet, Ichabod versus the macbook, Ichabod versus the wifi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia/pseuds/Ambrosia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod's ongoing battle with a Macbook Pro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Applecare

**Author's Note:**

> Just a simple thank you to Tumblr, because I was really struggling with my NaNo wordcount tonight and this actually managed to put me ahead of schedule.

Abbie has not often thought about her purchase of applecare for her battered old Macbook Pro. She normally wouldn’t have, except it was the only purchase she had actually made for herself. 

Her furniture was second-hand. Her cupboards were stocked with nonperishable goods should she ever need to _depart_. 

And by ‘depart’ she meant ‘run’ because you never really grow out the system. 

But Ichabod, on three occasions, has actually broken her macbook in ways that Abbie wasn’t actually sure was physically possible. 

It was damn hard to break a Macbook, because damn. 

“Abbie,” Ichabod calls the first time. “I went to press the bar of spaces and all the inscription has gone to large, shouting block letters.” 

Abbie didn’t even look up from the reference book she was examining, looking for nordic sealing runes, of all things. “It’s the capslock button, Crane. Left hand side. Little green light. Push it.”

There is a thirty-second or so pregnant silence, the sound of Ichabod’s chicken peck, which Abbie would absolutely not judge him on. For two-hundred-something the fact that he could chicken peck in itself was impressive. 

“Abbie,” the sound came again. Abbie inhaled, eyes going wide in preparation. “This particular mechanism has managed to come _off_.” 

Abbie doesn’t know what he means by _off_. Off, like it turned off, or off like ‘off’ off, like Abbie knew he might be talking about because one time he had been so fascinated by the washing machine in her apartment that he had poured half the laundry detergent in and run it anyway. 

“Here,” Abbie said, standing, “Lemme—”

But he’s right. The capslock button had come straight off, nowhere to be found, exposing the mechanism beneath that ran beneath the entire keyboard to each button. 

“ _Crane_ ,” is all Abbie said. “Where is the capslock button.” 

The second time is even stranger. They’d already had to have the talk about popups, which was all kinds of backward, in Abbie’s opinion, and then two days later the talk about the porn industry and why it was so popular on the ‘neternets’. 

And because she was a cop, goddammit. And yet that had been worse than the time that Frank O’Holloway had taken the Lyrica and had ended up buck naked on his neighbor’s couch at three o’clock in the morning. 

“Abbie,” comes again, And Abbie has found that Crane uses a very special infliction for the syllables in her name when he has done something she doesn’t like, be it guilt or anything else. 

“Yes, Crane?” She responded. 

“Abbie the neternet has stopped functioning again.” 

She turned the horseman’s skull around again, safe within it’s little sealed glass container marked with nordic runes. “What’d you see, Crane?” 

“Darkness,” Ichabod said from across their little base. 

“Did you try turning it off and on again?” Abbie asked. 

There is a pause for some time while Abbie goes back to her seal, making sure the runes align perfectly in the wood. She might have even carved a few extra, just in case. Her carvings were getting rather good, actually. 

“I have held the button and released it, and the machine has turned back on,” Ichabod said, a pitch of frustration in his voice, “Yet the neternet still refuses to respond.” 

“Is the wifi workin’?” 

There is another short, confused pause, then, “The who-fy?”

Abbie finally abandoned the skull and walked over to Ichabod and her malfunctioning macbook, to peer at the screen. Abbie drilled her hand across the touch pad, swiped the curser up to the wifi signal and selected _wifi_. “Wifi. Wireless internet. Here, look, you were connected to the Starbucks down the street instead of the Police Station, it was too far away.”

Ichabod’s hands were in his lap, clasped together in a way that Abbie has learned that he was wishing for an impossible amount of patience. “That grouping of words made very little sense, but I thank you.” 

The third and final time Abbie really couldn’t blame on Ichabod, but she thanked whichever fate had pushed her to purchase the Applecare instead. 

Because when a Headless Horseman threw his axe at your car and hit the macbook instead of your neck, there is a time when Abbie fully realized that she owed her soul to Apple, instead of just her wallet. 

Still, Abbie thinks, staring at what remains of her car. The passenger side door is almost completely gone, just bits here and there hanging onto the hinges. The rest of the car is relatively unharmed, but when Abbie pulled the macbook in it’s two now separate halves out of the wreckage, Ichabod had an empathetic look on his face. 

“Could it be repaired?” Ichabod asked, “Perhaps a Neternet smith, or whichever the current term might be?”

Abbie smiled, just a little bit, because she secretly found it hugely adorable when Ichabod attempted to be both sensitive and current because it hardly ever worked out well for him and every time she got him to admit he didn’t know what a word meant was a victory in Abbie’s book. 

But instead, Abbie asked, “What lie do you think I could tell the Apple store to get this covered by my Applecare package?”


End file.
